Layers of shadow
by Inkfire
Summary: Terry Boot wasn't someone that interesting, all in all - but he sure knew how to keep a secret. Round Six of the 34 stories, 106 reviews challenge on the HPFC forum, also fitting the Secrets challenge on xoxLewrahxox's forum.


**A one-shot for the 34 stories, 106 reviews challenge on the HPFC forum. **

**Round Five: Terry Boot/ Anthony Goldstein. **

**Also fits the Secrets challenge on xoxLewrahxox's forum (2600 words exactly).**

_**Secrets **_

_**Write a fic with a word count of more or less an exact multiple of 100 words dealing with a HP character (or characters) and a secret of some sort. They can be sharing secrets, keeping them, discovering them, or anything else you like, as long some sort of secret is involved.**_

Terry Boot was every bit the average guy.

He had been sorted into Ravenclaw. Thus he had brains, but not particularly outstanding – just enough to get good grades, find the answers to enter his common room, and all in all fit right in. He had pure blood and an old name, which meant a sufficient amount of money to do pretty much what he wanted with his life, as long as he worked hard enough. He had two best mates, Michael and Anthony; everybody more or less liked him or could stand him – all in all, his life was normal and quite pleasant.

All in all, that was.

* * *

Terry was a Ravenclaw and thus curious, with a keen mind. But there were things he just was not willing to ponder or question, or to look more closely at, really. He called that his secret box. Terry's mum, one night back when he was just a child, had kissed him goodnight and said that there were secret things in life, things that could hurt people, and those were better left unknown. She'd said that she loved him, too – and his mum was always right, _truthful_. She loved him, even though she'd left shortly after that, packing her pretty dresses while Terry's dad was shouting nasty things and running off into the night without looking back. It hadn't been her fault. Someone had told on her secret.

His mum _was_ the secret now, sweet and precious as a secret with a pale face and soft eyes in his memory. He loved her, but she wasn't to be talked about.

Secrets were pretty things.

* * *

It was well-known that Terry could keep a secret. It was sort of his thing – he wasn't that special, interesting or much more clever than the others, but he was trustworthy. He'd never told when Michael had said to him one night, in a whisper, that he really, really liked Ginny Weasley. He'd never told that there was this whole Dumbledore's Army business going on, of course, but he hadn't told either when Marietta started shaking and saying very angrily that it was all so _stupid_, and it was _wrong_ to go against the rules, everybody could get _expelled_, and someone should do _something_ about it.

Perhaps, he thought, waking up with an empty feeling in his chest the day after Dumbledore's departure, perhaps not telling hadn't been the best idea for that one.

But he kept on doing it all the same, telling himself that it was the best way to handle life, and deep inside he felt it was easier, because his brain could do with knowledge, riddles and spells, but not much with _emotions_, no.

* * *

Not telling was loyalty, and so it was loyalty to stay silent about all the things Anthony would say about Ginny Weasley. Quiet, responsible Anthony, prefect, golden-boy Anthony was whispering things to him in the dead of night, by the fireplace, to him and him only, and maybe those things were true or maybe they weren't, but really, it was none of Terry's business, he didn't care about the Weasley girl and if problem there was, it would be between Michael or Anthony. And besides it felt _so very good_ to be the one Tony felt free to confide in, to share a secret with – even if it ended up being a false one after all, who cared. Tony's thoughts were his secret, the only off thing in his perfect life, great-grades good-friend responsible-talented-happy and everything, and he was offering them for Terry to keep. And that was bittersweet. Terry would be here and listen to Tony talk for hours about Ginny in hushed whispers, how they would meet in secret places to share breathless kisses and other, more intimate things. Terry would lie with his eyes closed and just receive the secret, lock it safely inside his head, inside his chest. And his chest hurt, but that meant he was alive, meant that he was feeling something, that something was really happening to him. His chest hurt and he listened and imagined Anthony's bare chest, Anthony's hands buried in Ginny's hair, Anthony's voice when it got a bit hoarse with anger and passion, his voice around another name, his lips tracing, caressing the name, the words, the secret, the look in his eyes when he turned a bit wild... Terry took the secret and kept it and made it his. Tony and he had lots and lots in common, the secret exchanged and owned together, the smooth façade, and wanting someone they could never have. This was real and to Terry, it only became more and more real.

Michael broke up with Ginny, which was _not_ a secret. Tony, strangely enough, wasn't happy. He said his secrets louder, too loud, that Ginny would go with him now, that they would see, they would all see. Terry suspected he didn't really want that – but then again, it could have been his very own feelings projecting, the secret becoming truth, tangible truth, it was a fearsome prospect, obviously. But it ended up not being a problem, for Ginny didn't come. Ginny called Tony a deluded freak and ordered him to stop stalking her, which he did, but Michael did come and broke Tony's nose, saying he'd thought they were friends, and that Tony was a jealous bastard for inventing things about his ex-girlfriend. Terry thought Tony was not a deluded freak, nor a jealous bastard. He didn't know what Tony was anymore, maybe he was just alone, but if he was alone then it meant that for him Terry wasn't there, which just wasn't possible – another precious secret dissolving into smoke. There had been Tony-and-Ginny and there had been Tony-and-Terry and those were only shadows, secrets become bigger than reality, they were_ lies_. There had been and still was Tony-the-liar, but Terry couldn't blame him for that, he had twisted reality to suit his own fantasies too, hadn't he? He hadn't done it aloud, but that was the only difference – in the end, it all came down to keeping secrets again. In the end Michael had no secrets, he was just angry, Anthony had big ones and was too bitter and desperate to keep them right and Terry... Terry didn't take sides and didn't show his cards, he was there for everybody which meant that it really mattered to no one, and he had the art of secrets but that didn't make him less alone. And so the Ravenclaw trio of their year ended up broken, shattered, a ruin.

* * *

For Terry, the summer that followed was no easy one – he wallowed in the silence, a silence that now seemed to scream of loneliness. Terry kept shutting up, he studied, locked in the house with his father and a war just starting outside. He would have loved to hide from himself, from his own painful and pained though _oh-so-feeble_ lucidity, but no secret could fill the hole, the aching emptiness, the only thing he was aware of. Going back to Hogwarts should have been a relief, and in a way it was. In a way it was...

His friends claimed to have moved on; Michael had done so smoothly, from Ginny to Cho at the end of the previous year already, and Anthony grudgingly admitted a liking for his pretty fellow prefect, the most stunning Padma Patil. They teased Terry on the topic of girls, and taken off guard, he stammered "Lovegood" – the first name that had come to his mind. They dropped the subject immediately. Even if he had found a believable interest, he had a feeling they wouldn't have pushed very far. The word "girls" still seemed to make them a tiny bit tense and touchy.

(Michael would straighten up with a self-confident smirk and a glare, Anthony would scoff and frown and turn overly snarky, and he... it was awkward.)

Anyhow they hung out together, danced around the embarrassment expertly, and stood as a united front during this year of troubles and fears, till the very end.

Terry couldn't have had better friends – if only he'd been sure he could call them so.

(There was always a doubt, a nagging thing at the back of his mind – something ambiguous, something _unsaid_. Not a secret, just a feeling, an unpleasant one.)

He remained silent, and habit made it easier.

* * *

That following summer, Terry started dreaming about Anthony, about his friend who'd never really been one, the friend who had used him to turn his lies into existence, and his chest hurt like in the good old days – he woke up gasping, his hands yearning to touch, to feel slightly rough skin under his digits, to trace the line of a hard, bitter mouth and then kiss it into submission. He wanted something _real_, something he could see and touch and scream for the world to hear, not a secret – not anymore. Not hidden, not shameful, not wrong. His heart beat too fast and he felt too alive to possibly believe that it was wrong – any longer.

He had two months to build his resolve, and he did so with iron-hard determination.

* * *

On Platform 9 ¾, Terry didn't run into Anthony straight away, but with everything he had to process all at once it was worth remaining focused for a little while. Funny how the war had felt so distant in the safety of his house during the summer. Dumbledore's death had been too huge a shock, and the whispers of the Dark Lord taking over the Ministry, only that – whispers. But here on the platform there were children being taken aside by hard-faced men asking them to justify their blood status – just children – and Terry felt anger bubbling and burning in his throat. He didn't snap or do anything rash when giving his name to one of those Ministry people, but he didn't know how – and then he boarded the train, and ran straight into a white-faced, fiery-eyed Ginny Weasley.

"Dumbledore's Army," she only whispered.

He followed her into her compartment; Michael and Anthony were already there. He sat next to them, looking into the pale faces of those who were left, those who were still free, for now, deemed worthy of the school. A little smile fluttered across his mouth. Worthy indeed, and they would show it.

* * *

The good thing in a war, Terry discovered, is that it doesn't leave you much time to think of anything else.

And it was a war indeed that Dumbledore's Army was fighting. It was a war of words, and a war of friendship – standing united against vicious words and relentless torture, sticking for one another. Terry had learned to hate secrets, which was the funniest thing since they had just become absolutely _necessary_, but he was sick and tired of hiding. Words saved them this year, he was intensely, painfully aware of this. Like the others, he clung to Neville Longbottom's retorts of defiance, to the ranting statements of life-long dedication they would make to one another, as though to reassure themselves, more than anything, that conviction still existed (_Dumbledore's Army, still recruiting!_) to the bits of information they managed to hear on the wireless (_George, that's George! Ginny had stammered, turning so white it looked as though she was going to faint_). The worst violence was done with words, too (_Harry Potter, wanted for questioning about the death of Albus Dumbledore!_), they polluted your mind and saturated it, gnawing at your resolve, making it hard to _think_ (_Muggles are animals. Muggles are dirty. Magic is might_.), words were trying to pull them apart. They had to stick together.

(_What? I'm... I'm not gay, mate!_)

It was... most important... to stick together. Everybody was losing close ones and everybody was afraid, and they could not allow themselves to unleash their fears, to mourn, or to stay alone.

No matter what.

(_Just... just leave me alone, okay? Please, leave me alone!_)

Terry decided that there were words of beauty and closeness to be found against the bitter, knife-sharp words of rejection. He decided that the truth could set you free.

(_They have broken into Gringotts! Harry Potter has gotten into Gringotts and flown away on a dragon!_)

Terry decided that pain was only relative, and clung to his conviction for dear life, _fighting on_.

* * *

In the end he was thrown into battle, a battle in which words could do little if they weren't thrown along with curses, quick, straight-forward, _vicious_ – words that did not listen. In the end Terry thought he killed a man, to help Seamus Finnegan – he didn't see his face, he just saw him fall, and something in him knew that he had just ended a life. Terry fought and looked madly for his friends, but they were nowhere to be found. He saw Harry Potter's corpse, then he saw that miracles could happen, and he ended up seeing the Dark Lord fall, empty corpse, empty shell – like too many people around them, before him.

It was all a blur.

The scent of death seemed to cling to him afterwards. He just stood there, glassy-eyed, among the rejoicing crowd. It was over, they said, and that it was. For dozens and dozens of people it was well and truly over, _everything_, and Terry, Terry felt cold.

Michael pushed through towards him, white-faced with his hand bleeding, and hugged him hard. Light-headed, he hugged back just as fiercely.

* * *

It would be a summer of joy, they had visibly decided.

Terry stood among the flowers, a bit uncomfortable in his elegant dress robes. The whole room smelled of lilies and was full of beaming, chattering friends. He looked at Parvati, who gave him a nervous smile. Her cheeks were stained with tears already, her perfect make-up slowly turning into a mess. She fidgeted and he kept his eyes trained on her, willing them not to drift. His hands tightened around the box he was holding as he waited, until eventually, the music began.

Parvati let out a little squeal as the princess walked in on their father's arm. She was eerily beautiful, a slim, elegant shape in billowing whiteness, a veil shielding her pretty face. She walked lightly up the aisle like some bride from a fairytale, just the right amount of nervousness, graceful, delicate, perfect. Her father released her arm and she stepped beside the groom, glowing with happiness.

"We are gathered here today," an ancient man spoke, "to celebrate the union of two young souls, Anthony Peter Goldstein and Padma Vari Patil..."

Terry kept the smile on his face, all along. He watched his best friend kiss the bride. He cheered. To everybody he was the best man, the best friend, one of many war survivors celebrating the dawning of a new era, of love, happiness.

His eyes remained unreadable.

"_There is love in our bodies and it holds us together  
And it pulls us apart when we're holding each other  
We all need something to hold in the night  
__We don't care if it hurts when we're holding too tight_

_There is love in your body but you can't get it out  
It gets stuck in your head, won't come out of your mouth  
Sticks to your tongue and it shows on your face  
That the sweetest of words have the bitterest taste_."

_Hardest of Hearts_, Florence and the Machine.

**For the record, Terry was the one to yell into the Great Hall that the Trio had broken into Gringotts, and Vari is an Indian name which means "water" or "sea". Thought it sounded pretty**


End file.
